Vindictive Target
by Noche Buena
Summary: The Dursleys go to Majorca for their holidays. Loads and loads of couples.
1. Default Chapter

Privet Drive was a lovely place to be today in England, contrary to many tourists' view of the usually dreary and rainy area. In fact, the sun was shining brightly on the immaculately trimmed impatiens, the dewy green grass was perfect for sitting upon, and children ran up and down the streets with various sorts of toys clutched in their hands. Their shouts of laughter and anger could be heard throughout the neighborhood, brightening dreary spirits that despised the rain and drear. 

However, the Dursleys of #4 Privet Drive were never brightened. Harry Potter, their "insufferable" nephew, could certainly tell you all about them. Especially today, when the Dursleys were enormously stressed and bustling about their normal English household, yelling at each other and adding un-needed snipes to Harry, who wasn't doing anything to spite them. Today was definitely not a day to be around the Dursleys, who were packing for their holidays in Majorca. 

The family had always talked of buying a vacation house in Majorca, dreaming of the day they could lounge about in white whicker chairs and hammocks lining a porch. Their only son, Dudley, was only dreaming of how many tv channels they had there. And food, especially. Petunia Dursley, who was a thin-lipped, naturally curious and angry woman, had been rushing around shops in London for days trying to find summer outfits that Dudley could possibly fit in. Dudley was an unaturally large boy of 15, with many chins that quivered when he yelled or talked, which was quite a lot. Petunia had brought home some very ugly outfits, which she swore "are so fashionable for boys in France." Dudley had yelled back that maybe it was fashionable for "wankers with lipstick," but not for himself.

Harry Potter had to stifle his laughter when he saw the outfits splayed out on Dudley's large bed. And he had to restrain himself even more when he saw the bags of ruffled pink capris in bags on the kitchen table. Those were for Aunt Petunia, although at first he thought they were Ron Weasley's dress robes. Regardless of the outfits, Vernon Dursley had boomed out proudly two weeks before to the family as they ate their meager dinner of weakened soup and low-fat bread that he had "gotten a *very* nice raise" and they were going to buy a "ritzy" vacation home in Majorca. Instantly after announcing this, he had growled to Harry that "he was not to come with their family" and he was to stay at Mrs. Figg's next door until that deplorable "Wheezy" family could take him in.

Nevertheless, Harry wasn't heartbroken at all at this, and even though he had to stay at Mrs. Figg's (whose house smelled like cabbages, wool, and cats), he knew the Weasleys wouldn't mind at all that he was coming to stay at their lopsided but exciting house. So Dudley had gone around for two weeks, telling everybody who would listen that he was going to stay in a mansion in Majorca in the Mediterranean that his family owned and his skinny little cousin was going to stay at the smelly old neighbors'. 

So now, Harry was at his last day at the Dursley's for the year, having to spend it with the irratable people that inhabited their bodies. He was chewing on a Sugar Quill that he had bought in Hogsmeade in February, trying to think of how he could make his History of Magic essay sound as boring as possible. Professor Binns loved all things boring. That, or it was just the way he taught, like Professor Trelawney, who was always swooning over Harry's upcoming deaths. His room had not changed from when he got it when he was 11, but all the broken toys that Dudley had sat on were stashed in the large walk-in closet, along with lots of his old clothes, which Aunt Petunia refused to throw away. She said they brought back memories of her "lovely little boy." 

Harry had to chuckle when she had said that. Dudley had never been little, and his tantrums had not faded away over the years. Now that Harry was back from Hogwarts, the wizarding school he went to, the Dursleys were as eager as ever to get away from him. Wizards and witches were just "not normal" in their eyes, and Harry was even more despised than strangers. Taking his pen off the paper for a moment to glance up at Hedwig, who was hooting softly in her wire cage, he saw that there was a postcard laying on the open windowsill.

"And you didn't even tell me an owl came?" he asked Hedwig, who twisted her head to face him. Hedwig looked slightly jealous, looking at him as though he should have known. She gave a loud "hoot" and fell promptly asleep against the bars of the cage. Harry got off his bed where stashes of paper and random assortments of wizarding material was laying on his itchy wool blanket, and inspected the postcard, which had a picture of clear blue water and palm trees on it. It was from Hermione! And it wasn't even his birthday yet. Usually she didn't send mail until it was his birthday, and then she would send it regularly. Harry sat upon his heavy black trunk to read his letter, which had perfectly neat handwriting. "Definitely Hermione's," he thought happily, eager to read his friend's words.

"Dear Harry," the postcard read.

"I hope your summer is going well, and that the Dursleys aren't giving you too much trouble. If they are, I'll be happy to send you food. My parents and I are on holidays in Sicily this summer, and I look like a crab. I'm not joking. Ron would be laughing at me quite hard right about now. I've sent a postcard to Ron, too, but I haven't told him that I look like a crab because I know you wouldn't laugh as hard. The food here is wonderful, but unfortunately, I've left my schoolwork at home so I can't do any of it. I'm still sending you a birthday present and card, I'd just thought I'd say hello and all.

Love,

Hermione."

Harry shook his head at Hermione's letter. That was his friend, always thinking about homework when she wasn't thinking about house elves and whatever else that girl thought about. Then, his own thoughts were interrupted as somebody banged his fist on the doorway. "Open up!" grouched the voice behind the flimsy door that had already been broken once by his uncle Vernon.

"Come in," said Harry nonchalantly, clearing up the clutter on his cot, hiding Hermione's postcard from view. It was Uncle Vernon, dressed in a orange Hawaiian shirt, and dressy chinos. He looked horribly out-of-place in this outfit, and his blue buggy eyes were popping out at Harry, who was dressed in a gray shirt and loose jeans, looking quite innocent.

"We'll be leaving in about two hours, if you can get your sorry, good-for-nothing ass up off that bed and pack up all your things in that blasted trunk of yours. Have this room ready and cleaned before I come back up here in two hours," grunted Mr. Dursley, scowling at him. Mr. Dursley had never liked him, and he knew he wasn't going to get any special treatment today just because they were going on holidays. Today was almost a free-for-all in the blighting of Harry. He gave one last glare to his nephew, and stormed out the room, and stomped down the creaky stairsteps.

"Yes, darling uncle," muttered Harry under his breath. With all his luck, his room would be looking like a tornado blew through it when he came back. And with all his luck, Voldemort would have hunted him down and killed him. Harry was pretty surprised he wasn't dead already. After all that happened 4th year, with the Triwizard Cup. He hated shifting through the memories in his mind. He hated having to go through the binding fear racing through his body, his heart pounding, his skin clammy and the awful feeling of loss when that damned green flash of light burst through the cemetary. Harry shook his head, trying to rid himselves of the memories. As always, it didn't work.

His head came colored back to clear as everything was focused in his room. The disgusting blue and red blanket still covered the grungy peeling cot in the corner of his room. His large painting-style window lit up his bedroom with sunshine, showing what the room really was. A dump, but nevertheless Harry's dump. The walls were painted a light blue color, and the trim job looked like a two year old had done it. Hedwig's cage hung from a large hook across from his bed, also in the corner. Hedwig was still asleep, her talons gripping the wooden dowel Harry had placed in there. The Dursleys allowed Hedwig out of her cage as long as she stayed in Harry's room and did not go anywhere else in the house. However, Hedwig found it comforting to have the latch open, so that she could go out whenever she wanted. Harry's trunk was at the foot of his x-legged cot, its black leather outing on the corners slightly frayed, showing how much damage a trip to Hogwarts on the Express could to do a carrier.

Harry sighed ruefully, tossing his raven hair about. He rose up off the trunk, and stepped over to the closet, deciding it would be best to start packing. He wouldn't want to leave for Mrs. Figg's and then have remembered that he had forgotten something back at the Dursley's. They definitely weren't going to give him a key to the house while he was staying with the elderly looking neighbor. Opening the closet, he found that he had very little muggle clothing to wear under his school robes when he went back. Now, usually he would have thought it was much too early to be packing (It was only June 28th!), but in this case, remembering that the Dursleys wouldn't be back until he was in school, he had to do it now. Not like Uncle Vernon would actually do anything to him, because of his fear for Sirius Black and his "scary wrath," as he put it one night to Mrs. Dursley. Sirius was probably not thinking about what to pack for Hogwarts at this moment, thought Harry, of Sirius's, Snape's and Dumbledore's conversation over the year.

So, Harry looked at his meager wardrobe. Four plain shirts, 5 pairs of jeans and khakis. To imagine that Ron though he was _rich. _Of all things! Sure, maybe in the wizarding world, but definitely not in the Muggle world. He fingered a threadbare red and white polo shirt, hangly forlornly upon an old white hanger. The closet had a small dingy light- but it only aided in seeing the miles of Dudley's crap laying around. He grudgingly pulled all of his clothes off the hanger, folding them over his bare arm, and dumping them in his trunky sloppily. Usually he was tidy when it came to packing, but the fact that he wasn't going to Ron's or Hogwarts right away certainly made a difference. He flicked the light switch of the closet, and started opening drawers in his dresser, which was next to Hedwig's cage.

In his wooden dresser, he found a magical photo of Ron, Hermione, and himself, arms slung over their shoulders facing the lake at Hogwarts. Ron would scrunch up his freckled nose, Hermione's dimples would deepen slightly, and Harry was tickling Hermione in the side. All of them looked extremely happy, the lake shining behind them and the dark fir trees rustling slightly. If Harry inhaled a little, he could practically smell the grass and the flowers and just the scent of magic whenever he looked at that photograph, which was framed in a simple silver frame. He looked at it wistfully, wishing they could all go back to the days of the 3rd year, maybe back to second year. Maybe even back to when he didn't even know he was a wizard. Where he didn't know Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Hagrid and Dumbledore and maybe back to where his parents didn't get married and Tom Riddle didn't have a child named after himself. Maybe then....

Harry took his quills and stashed them angrily into his 1/4 full trunk. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he had to be the one.

That he had to be the target.


	2. Moving Out

**Title: Vindictive Target, chapter two.  
Author: Nellie  
E-mail: Pyromaniac917@yahoo.com  
Summary: Harry learns a lot about the world when Voldemort is around- and what happens to the people around them. Contrary to popular belief, this is *not* an angst piece, nor is it short. I'm approximating about 28 chapters here, although they might get a lot longer than this short chapter here.   
Distribution: Give it away! I don't care, as long as you don't change the words or the characters, and you give me credit. I hate plageurism, too, so don't steal my ideas. If there's a fic sort of like this that's already been written, tell me so then I can blush in private.  
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling, who is a bloody genius. Heeh. I just own the literal books. I bought them. But they're not mine, and neither are the characters and I'm obviously not JK Rowling. *wink***

It seemed dumb to think that he was targeted all the time, but it was true. Everything he had ever done in life always had consequences. Every piece of magic, every word spoken had somehow arranged his bereavement even further, driving Harry into a little hole, only waiting for him to gather his wits, and muster everything he had in him to kick serious arse. He bit his lip in a calm way to not burst out crying. Harry had never felt like crying, really, until this year. It was like his hormones had given him a swift kick in the head, and he couldn't control them even if he had wanted to. And now that the Dursleys were leaving for Majorca, and dumping him at the neighbor's? Was it his fault that he was a wizard, that his parents were wizards, and that their ancestries linked back to powerful magic still coursing in their dead and living veins? No. It wasn't. A year or two ago he wouldn't have even cared if the Dursleys had dumped him off. In a way, he was glad, and then he was sort of infuriated at them.

He had as much right to go with them. Not that he hated Mrs. Figg or anything, (she was all right for an old bird), but she always had the Sewing Circle ladies over, who cooed at Harry constantly and tutted over his hair and his scar and insisted that he wasn't eating enough. That was a dumb excuse, and Harry knew it, but he couldn't explain that even though he hated the Dursleys, that was his only family. "Some is better than none," he thought to himself, trying to snap out of it. His brain and his body fought each other now, and now he felt all weird and temperamental over the simplest things. So most of his thoughts were mumbo-jumbo, and whenever he talked, there seemed to be a slight squeak. Sure, he had gotten that when he was 12, but wasn't puberty supposed to be over by now? 

There was another dumb babble. His thoughts jumped all over the place, and Harry could barely concentrate on a simple task. Ever since he had gotten back from Hogwarts, and Fleur and Hermione had kissed him, and the Dursleys had driven him home, and everything at Hogwarts had happened, he'd just been feeling all these out-of-body thoughts. Like he wasn't even the one thinking them. And like he'd thought Fleur's kiss much better than Hermione's, which didn't make any sense at all, besides the fact that she was half-Veela.

He knew most of these were crazy teenaged thoughts, but some of them did make sense. For instance, there was that single lurking thought everytime he went to bed at night; "Voldemort wants you dead. He'll come after you. He'll torture you. Stretch your limbs and insert odd things in your body. You will die, Harry Potter. And no one- no one- not Hermione, not Ron, not Dumbledore- will hear you scream. Because there won't be any screaming." 

The fact that even Barty Crouch Jr. could have impersonated anybody- he really didn't even have to impersonate Moody- he could have impersonated any of his friends. Barty could have been Ron and could've been able to kill him so easily.

Harry almost shuddered at that thought. He hated knowing that he was the only person in the wizarding world with this problem. And he knew it was true. Harry was completely weak, and unprepared. The scar-faced boy could only mutter "Expellimarus" to defend himself, let alone pronounce it or spell it. That's how bad things were. And everybody considered him brave, when he knew the facts. He wasn't brave- it was his parents that were brave, not him. Harry would not be able to die until Voldemort and his supporters were gone. Staying alive was his job now- as it was for the people fighting against him.

The shaggy haired boy tried to ignore his thoughts as he continued packing, tossing random and useless things into the trunk. He stopped to inspect his Sneakoscope, which unusually hadn't been whirring as it usually was when he left it at Privet Drive. It was still a shiny silver color- maybe he could even use it this year. An extra precaution to hide his skinny self- not that he wasn't strong, because he was according to Mrs. Weasley, who had reassured him in 3rd year when Madame Pomfrey had tutted at Harry, saying things like, "Such a weak boy. Couldn't handle the dementors at all."

In the third drawer, he found a large series of letters and things sent to him by Hermione, Ron, and Hagrid. He glanced at them for a second, wondering whether or not he should bring them with him- but the horror of the Dursleys coming back and finding them in the drawers would be slightly embarrassing- as he had talked to Ron in a couple of them about his feelings of adoration for a certain Seeker he knew in the 6th year, Cho Chang. After arranging the postcards and letters in a little pile, he tied them all together with a large rubber band, and stuffed them into his trunk, amazed at how much stuff was already in there in such a short amount of time. His wand, map, and invisibility cloak were safely stashed at the bottom of the trunk already.

Then, looking at his watch, it really wasn't a short amount of time. He had spent so much time thinking and looking through stuff that he only had about 30 minutes to say good-bye to everyone, and then he would be in Mrs. Figg's for god knew how long. Hopefully not for too long. The Dursleys were paying her very little, and Harry sort of felt bad for the woman. But she hadn't seemed to notice it as Mrs. Dursley talked to her on the phone, her nasal voice ringing loudly all over the house about "Harry the Juvenile Deliquent." Mrs. Figg was so old, she probably had thought Mrs. Dursley was saying "Larry ate the Vile Banquet" or something odd like that.

Finally, when his trunk was packed of all things he deemed necessary (including his History of Magic essay and the rest of his homework snugly enclosed in a file pocket), he took out several sheets of paper from the last dresser drawer; he had forgotten to write Hagrid and tell him that he was staying at Mrs. Figg's. All he had been telling him was about the Dursleys shopping for riduculous clothes- he had downright forgotten that he wasn't going with them ever. Harry took out a regular Bic pen (A/N- *tee-hee*, always wanted to do that, sorry!) and started writing on the trunk, his wrist perched rather akwardly.

Dear Hagrid,

Just writing to tell you that I'll be staying at the neigbor's house for about 3-4 weeks this summer. The Dursleys couldn't find anybody else and I didn't want to barge in on the Burrow. It's #6 Privet Drive if you were wondering. Hope everything's well with you and "Olympe." 

Love, 

Harry

He knew it was short, but it would do for the time being. Harry had already written to Sirius four days ago- he was staying at Hogwarts over the summer, checking to see that no wizard had broken in and messed things about- and he was also looking out for Wormtail, which he was sure was "somewhere." Dumbledore, who had gone home for the summer to a small cabin somewhere in England (Harry had seen a picture of it somewhere on his desk), and was paying Sirius to keep an eye out on Hogwarts. Usually, Hagrid would do it (and he still was, along with Sirius, now knowing fully what happened third year because of Dumbledore's trust in him), but he didn't mind sharing it with Sirius that much. After all, he was the Care of Magical Creatures professor now, even though he still liked to putter about the grounds.

The white walls in his room were peeling, and the wooden floor creaked whenever he walked over it. Once, he had even done a rendition of "Anarchy in the UK," which was often remarked as a rather rude song. Peeves the Poltergeist loved to break into that song during feasts, most of the times shocking the first years into silence. The other years just laughed at Peeves, who was a rather short and evil ghost. "Ehn," moaned Harry, reminded of more Hogwarts. He missed his friends, and thinking about Hogwarts just made it worse. Maybe it was just the temperament of the room, so drab and dreary. Not like it'd be any better at Mrs. Figg's, but at least he wouldn't be forced into doing chores. Knitting, yes. But chores, almost never unless Mrs. Figg possibly couldn't do them.

He placed his hand in Hedwig's cage, and gently petted her soft white feathers to wake her up from her deep slumber. Or as deep as an owl could sleep. "Wake up, Hedwig. I've got a letter for Hagrid."

At the mention of Hagrid's name, the owl woke up instantly and stared at Harry with wide yellow eyes, and hooted happily, jumping onto his two middle fingers, being careful to not break the skin or scratch him. Harry tied the letter onto Hedwig's foot, and brought her to the large window. He held his hand out, and Hedwig flew out almost instantly to the rising sun outside. Two stories below, Harry could see the large green hedge that Aunt Petunia loved to stare over, and a large pile of scooters, basketballs, bicycles, and other outdoor games all ment for Dudley, who hardly ever used them. The lawn was neatly trimmed, as were the rose bushes along the other hedge, on the left side. Harry had clipped them all after accidentally dropping Dudley's only low-fat, low-sodium rice cake in the toilet. Aunt Petunia had been furious, yelling at Harry for wasting "styro- er, rice cakes! You should be grateful you have this much!"

Nevertheless, Harry put the rest of the paper he found in the drawer into his trunk, leaving his ballpoint pen on the ugly cot. He fastened all the sliver plated locks on the large trunk, and looked around his room, which was probably only 12 feet by 16 feet, and he could walk across it in exactly 6 medium steps. He wouldn't miss it, that was for sure. He wouldn't miss Dudley, who was scared to death of him by now, he wouldn't miss the shrill Aunt Petunia, nor the tyrant Uncle Vernon.

He peeked at his watch furtively, noticing that he only had 15 minutes to get his trunk out of the house and into Mrs. Figg's. With a slow start, he lugged the weighty trunk to the door, the floorboards squeaking angrily every step he took to get out of his room and out of this damned house. Harry opened the door wide open, and with one last heave of his arms, pulled the trunk out of his room. A loud "clunk" could be heard ringing on the ceilings. Getting it downstairs would definitely be a challenge. To the left of his room was the loo, and next to the loo, Harry could hear moaning sounds coming from Dudley's bedroom, which fortunately was closed.

Harry didn't even want to think about what Dudley was doing- or who he was doing in there. He only wished he could magic his trunk down the stairs with a simple "Wingardium Leviosa," but he was unfortunately an underaged wizard. Harry dragged his trunk along the ivy-green carpet, and winced everytime the trunk clunked on a step. Finally, after much sweating and worry, the boy had made it downstairs without damaging any limbs or attachments. In the kitchen, Aunt Petunia was feverently making whole-weat sandwiches and stuffing them, along with the dreaded rice cakes, in a large picnic bag. She was wielding a very large knife and was chopping up chicken as if her life depended on it. Harry stood in the large entryway, which had many picture of Dudley hung on the walls. He wasn't sure whether to yell good-bye, or a simple "I'm leaving!"

So the gangly boy with the bright green eyes stood in front of the front door akwardly, until Uncle Vernon or somebody would spot him and tell him to leave. Sure, he could just "go" and the Dursleys wouldn't care, but that would be kind of weird. And what if Mrs. Figg wasn't even expecting him? Where would he go? He looked around the house once more, taking note of everything as though this would be his last time here, ever. Harry didn't care, really, but when the people at school asked him about home, he described the setting.

A family portrait of the Dursleys was hanging in the stairwell, Dudley taking up almost so much of the space that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were almost pushed out of the picture. They all looked extremely irratable. The entryway sort of looked like a cedar closet- it was more of a mudroom than an entryway, really. Dark wooden boards were the choice of walls, and several expensive looking pegs held Dudley's immense navy blue peacoat, and Mrs. Dursley's purple trench coat. A wooden shoe rack (made by Dudley with Love, read the bottom in red paint) held the family's shoes. Harry was not allowed to put his shoes there. The door had some frosted glass design on it, with the letter opening just 2 feet above the bottom, a welcome sign visible outside.

Harry almost laughed at the irony of it. "Welcome?" he muttered under his breath. The mat had blue flowers on it- and a duck, which only caused him to grin wider. The duck was extremely fat, and he was instantly reminded of Dudley, who was upstairs in his expensive room, doing whatever he was doing. He was instantly disgusted, and turned away from the duck, glancing back into the kitchen. He stepped into the living room, which connected the kitchen and the entryway, being careful to not disarray any of the small crystal figurines Aunt Petunia was absolutely obssessed in. In the white-walled kitchen, Harry quietly asked his aunt, "Aunt Petunia?" so to not make her fling her shiny knife at him.

His efforts were in vain. Aunt Petunia gasped loudly, shocked, and accidentally shoved the knife into one of the cherry wood cabinets above her eyes, unfortunately missing the paper towels, which were below them. She looked, horrified at the small tip of the blade inserted in her "beautiful cabinets" and froze, spinning around to see Harry looking a little timid in the doorway. "You... You..." she spat, brushing her hands over a beige summer jumper she was wearing, her arms sticking out of it like a scarescrow's, and her straw colored hair sticking up in disarray.

"You idiot! You ruined my cabinets!" she yelled at him angrily, rushing over to him past the blue tiled island in the middle of the kitchen, with large amounts of food piled upon it. She grabbed his ear angrily, taking him out of the halogen lit kitchen with the sea-foam green refridgerator. The hold on his ear was so tight he was surprised he didn't have a small hole in it. Mrs. Dursley forcefully pushed him to his trunk in the entryway, and pointed at the door. "First, you eat us out of house and home. Then, you terrify poor Dudley to death. Then you tell us that that-that- madman is your godfather. I cannot take this anymore. You. Are. LEAVING!" she screamed, her mouth open wide, and her face red. Her arm was shaking, and she was tapping her foot rather forcefully on the wooden floors. "Don't even think of coming back for Christmas or Easter, because WE WON'T BE HERE! Mrs. Figg was grateful enough to take you in, so go!"

Harry swallowed anxiously. Then, he felt a burst of strength inside himself, and he smiled a little, while opening the door, tugging his heavy black trunk over the carpet. He grinned at Aunt Petunia.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked vehemently, her teeth gritted. Her arms were closed over that sack of the dress, and her eyebrows were raised. 

"Well, I was just thinking. You really have no idea what's going on with Dudley, have you?" he asked, leading her on.

"Of course I do. He's my own son- unlike some people I know." Aunt Petunia turned her nose up at him, pursing her lips.

"Well, just go check his bedroom. He's likely to still be up there for a while. Just go in there." Harry had to surpress a grin. Oh, Dudley was going to be in *so* much trouble. 

"Go- away! And don't you even think of breaking into this house while we're gone, you lout! Leave!" However, when she said this, Harry could tell she was extremely curious about what Dudley had in his bedroom. Then she gave one final warning as Harry stepped off their front step, about to drag his trunk next door. "And no- funny stuff. Mrs. Figg is old and would probably die if you she saw you doing anything."

Harry shrugged, a feeling of glee bubbling up in his stomach. He never did do anything over the summer like that. Besides that- he knew the minute he was in Mrs. Figg's house, eating her interesting cookies that tasted like cat treats, Mrs. Dursley would bound up those stairs and storm Dudley's door.

This was going to be a great summer. 

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**Heheh. Thanks for all the reviews, you guys rock. More chapters are ahead soon!**


	3. Moving In

**Wheeh, chapter two. I wasn't sure how to write old British ladies, so I sort of went for the forgetful grandmother approach. Sorry it looks a little short, I'm trying to make them long but my brain doesn't think as fast as I type.**

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Harry cautiously pushed the wood paneled doorbell of #6 Privet Drive, where Mrs. Figg lived. Her house was practically identical to the Dursley's, except for the decorating tastes were very different. Her lawn in front was much smaller, and not as neatly kept. If Harry strained his ears enough, he could hear Uncle Vernon's booming voice yelling at someone. A crack in the time-weathered door appeared, and one deep blue eye peeked out. Then, Mrs. Figg opened the door, and the whole of her was visible. She was wearing a dress very much in the 1950s style, with a bias flared skirt that seemed to ripple. A rose pattern covered the length of it, and it complimented her petite figure. The old woman's flaxen hair was streaked with silver white strands, but her cheeks were rosy nevertheless. A red homespun apron covered her dress.

"Why, the Harry boy is here!" she exclaimed cheerfully, sticking her pale hand out to shake Harry's. "I almost forgot, silly me. I seem to forget a lot of things these days." Mrs. Figg sighed. "They never said getting old was very much fun. Oh! I'm sorry, love. I can't believe I left you at the doorstep for so long. I thought you were- someone else."

Her blue eyes turned a bit cloudy for a moment, but then returned to their normal color. "I'll help you with your trunk."

"No, really, you don't have to, Mrs. Figg. I can-" Harry protested. He didn't want the older woman to break her back or something- he'd heard horror stories about elderly women stuck like a bent nail.

She waved her hand about, ignoring Harry's objections. "Nonsense. I'm as strong as a cow."

Harry couldn't really think of a remark on what to say about that comment. "Er... Okay then." They both took two sides of the trunk, one of the snaps getting caught on Harry's loose-fitting dark jeans. He winced for a second, but finally managed to get it into her house, hefting most of it on his side.

Mrs. Figg smiled brilliantly, as though to prove her statement. "See? Strong as a cow, I am." 

Harry suppressed a grin.

Now inside the house, Harry could tell it hadn't changed. Once getting into the door, you would enter a living room, full of plump and sagging leather couches, covered with colorful crocheted blankets Mrs. Figg had made herself. Harry could already see one calico and one tabby cat lounging on the two long couches, perpendicular from each other. A shiny mahogany table held a silver tea set resting on a china platter, and a couple of "Hello!" magazines.

Mrs. Figg saw him staring at the magazines, thinking the same thing Harry was thinking. "Oh, I don't read that trash. I just have it laying around in case visitors come. Of course, if you read them, then that's-" she was at a loss for words.

Harry continued looking in the cream and white wallpapered area, the rug on the bottom matching the colors of the walls and the old leather couches. Several bookcases lined the walls, holding old and boring looking books. One shelf occupied several photographs, one of which was a a sort of old looking one, as if it had been taken in the 60s or so. It showed a teenage girl that looked remarkably like Mrs. Figg, and a handsome boy with dark hair about the same age, arms flung over each others' shoulders. It rather reminded him of the picture of him, Hermione, and Ron, except this one wasn't moving.

"Your house is great," Harry told her, trying to be nice. 

"Thank you, lovey! Would you like to see your bedroom for the next 3 weeks?" she asked kindly. 

"Sure," Harry told her, getting a tight hold on the trunk. She guided him through the living room, Harry being careful to not tread on any of the cats (they really did stink up the house). Then, they reached a small hallway flooded with light from a large window at the back. A small stool stood the purpose of holding a large plastic plant under the window, making an odd shadow on the glossy wood floors. She walked briskly to the end of the hallway, turning right and showing him into the doorway.

Harry had never stayed longer than 9 hours at Mrs. Figg's, so he had never needed a bed. Or a room, for that matter. 

Inside the room, at the end, was a large white double bed, with a blue and white patched quilt. Two small nighttables stood watch next to the bed, a jug of water on one, and a lamp on the other. A comfortable looking chaise lounge was set next to the two windows, its blue suade appearance looking very welcoming. A blue rag rug dusted the wood floors, and various paintings of china dishes were along the walls of the light and airy room. The windows were open, and suddenly, he could hear an extremely loud high-pitched scream coming from next door.

"Good lord, what is that sound?" asked Mrs. Figg, very surprised. The Dursley were most of the time very quiet, and the green hedge helped block some of the sound coming from the house next door.

Harry looked out the window, grinning. "Just the sound of a very surprised mother." He didn't have to wonder what the sound was. He strained his ears, hoping to catch some of their conversation. 

"Well, I'll just let you settle in. Yell if you need anything. Later tonight, I can show you some more pictures of Froosky! He's such a lovely kitty..." her voice trailed off, and she smiled happily and walked out of the room, leaving Harry alone to hear what the Dursleys were saying. Usually, nothing was interesting at the Dursley's unless he wasn't there. It was always such fun to get Dudley in trouble, because Dudley got him in trouble a lot more than the former. He sat down on the blue quilted bed, finding it quite comfortable and not at all squeaky.

Then, he could hear his aunt screaming for Vernon. "Vernon! Come heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeereeee!"

"Mum! Go away! I had left a Mars bar in the pocket of my trousers and I was ju-" yelled Dudley. The space between Mrs. Figg's and the Dursley's was really only about 10 feet, and just the tiny hedge seperating them. Harry hadn't had so much fun getting somebody else in trouble since Draco Malfoy came along.

"Do you think I don't know what you were doing? And us about to leave for holidays? Young man, that is disgraceful and it'll shriv-" Mrs. Dursley's voice probably could be heard through the entire neighborhood. Harry felt sorry for the rest of the houses on this street.

"Go away!" screamed Dudley, whose high and whiney voice was barely distinguishable from Mrs. Dursley's.

"What is going on? What happened to Ron? Is he all right?" asked Mr. Dursley, who sounded a bit out of breath, apparently just have arrived in the room. Then, he must have seen Mrs. Dursley's look on her face, judging by the force of the next blow up.

"What did that-that- VERMIN WIZARD of a boy do to you, son?" he yelled roughly. "I'LL GET HIM! I'LL GO OVER INTO HIS ROOM AND BEA-"

"Harry didn't do a thing. He's at the old lady's house next door," said Mrs. Dursley, with a certain amount of patience through her voice.

"Could you two please stuff it a little more? Everybody can hear you!" said Dudley, obviously humiliated.

"Then what bloody happened here?" he asked, growling and getting impatient.

"Well..." started Mrs. Dursley, her voice getting into lecture-mode for Dudley, which she never ever had to do before. "There comes a time in every man's life when- certain feelings arise... And, well, your son was... Doing what all boys do."

"BLOODY FUCKING HELL!" shouted Uncle Vernon. "HE WASN'T!"

"He was, love. Now calm down. It's perfectly natural and normal..." she trailed off, giving Dudley some time to yell.

"Mum! Just drop it, all right. I promise I'll never do it again. I love you," said Dudley, even more mortified, trying to shake off his father, who had apparently gripped his arm forcefully by the wincing in his voice.

"IT'S NOT NORMAL! IT'LL SHRIVEL OFF AND THEN WE'LL NEVER HAVE GRANDCHILDREN!" shouted Mr. Dursley. Probably the entire town could hear them by now.

Harry didn't have to keep in his laughter now. "HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHAAA!!!" let out Harry. This too much to handle. This was possibly the funniest thing he had ever heard the Dursleys talk about. And he'd heard a lot. He flopped back on his new bed, finally noticing the odd painting on the ceiling of all things.

It was a heart, with a dagger inserted into it. Several blue vines crept in and out of a circular hoop, around the heart and the rusty dagger. "Some break-up she must of had," thought Harry, blinking slightly. It might be a little harder to sleep tonight, but he'd manage.

_______________________

Since this chapter was so small, I'm probably going to take the next chapter and smush it onto this one. Sorry it was so short, I just started school and I've got a lot of A level classes I have to pass.


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